


A/A/E/I

by octopussian



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: M/M, Ryden
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopussian/pseuds/octopussian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two artists (one a failed filmmaker, the other a successful architect) and fellow alumni, born to elite families from Tribeca, reconnect in New York City and become intimate, until a powerful recession shakes their once privileged existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Agony/ Ecstasy/ Irony

The day after Brendon Urie, aged 18, was kicked out of USC film school, he decided to visit the Kubrick exhibit at the LA county museum of arts. The boy, dressed in a Wes Anderson vision took one look at the promotional poster for Lolita and promptly walked out. He could have sworn that he was in the glossy reflection of her heart-shaped glasses, preyed upon by the allure of the unattainable.  
He believed the circumstances surrounding his expulsion were somewhat contrived, although maybe deserved. Talent, he had. Ambition, even. Vision, of course. Perhaps what he lacked was a fundamental understanding of guidelines, specifically in regards to the guidelines of his assignments, frequently risking failed grades for the sake of purity and integrity. But of course, that couldn’t be it- his teachers applauded and rewarded his risks.  
Perhaps it was the fact that he reenacted the “They made me do it” scene from Donnie Darko in the middle of the West quad.   
At least he still had all the money from his scholarship burning a hole in his bank balance, which meant he had all the time in the world to ruminate on the paradox that was his current situation, the position between needing experience to work, and needing work to get experience, and the unfortunate status of his extinguished film career.  
He tried to reason that his future was not deterred by his lack of a degree, but then remembered Mercedes Mendez’s thick, scrunched up face when she learned that Hunter Rattan decided to take film classes at the Scarsdale community college, her nasal groan, her “Hello, Mcdonald’s next career fry-cook,” sneer. What a golden opportunity that he prematurely ejaculated all over! USC, his internships, his short film, his friends, his hook-ups, his ass-kissing, and now he was about to pack up his dorm and set out for what promised to be a now average go at existence.   
He spent the rest of the afternoon sifting through his belongings and circling Craigslist for a new apartment. It at least felt somewhat cinematic.

On the other side of the country, George Ryan Ross III, confidently shook the hand of Randall Yates, Chief Executive of Blah-blah-blah-blah…  
A few camera flashes sizzled around the ballroom of the Something Hotel, known for being the oldest building in Somewhere, Vermont, etc., etc.. His mother would be astounded at his lack of professionalism if she knew that he had woken up five minutes before he had to catch his flight, in a stranger’s bed in Tribeca. At least it was Tribeca and not Soho, with a girl who had white suede ottomans and leather Barcelona chairs instead of bean bags and hammocks. He remembered what they taught in school- unbutton your coat when you sit, button it up when you stand up again, shake with your right hand, remember your cuff-links-!  
“George, I’m so anxious to see the contributions that you’ll make to Grateriate Design. Ever since I first saw your innovation and promise, I just knew that our company couldn’t go on without you. I’m not sure how we survived without you in the first place! I’d like to make a toast to you and what I’m sure is going to be a great career with Grateriate. Cheers!”  
He half-heartedly lifted his glass with a forced laugh, trying to ignore the reek of desperation coming from Yates by focusing on making eyes at the cocktail waitress and thinking of how sleek she would look wrapped naked in fur on the cool, clean sheets of the round bed…  
“Good work, son. I know your father would be very pleased.” Yates said as he watched the now emerging socialization of the room.  
“I’m sure he would.” George said with a demure smile resembling a sneer. He withheld that his father wouldn’t honestly give a damn, if he wasn’t asking why it took him so long. His father had enjoyed his inheritance, sure enough, but wouldn’t have that sort of nepotism from any son of his. George always held that if his father could have made him earn the money for his education, then he wouldn’t have contributed a dime toward boarding school if he had anything to do with it.   
Ross continued to eye-fuck the waitress as he sipped on champagne.


	2. Chapter two

“I’m sorry, I’m on my way now, I just had to stop at the store really quick for-“  
Kara’s sigh echoed on the other line. “It’s fine, Bren, just hurry please! The show starts in half an hour and I wanted to go over the rules before I left.”  
“Sure thing, I’m coming. Bye.” He closed his phone, took his cash from the woman at the register, picked up his bag in one fisted hand, and walked out the open automatic door.   
On the ground, leaned up against a pillar, was a man in a nest of blankets, plastic bags, coats, flattened cardboard boxes, and newspapers. This sight was more common in Los Angeles than stoplights; thousands of sanity-ambiguous homeless, stepped over and usually seen as nuisances- pests who prey on the innocent citizens of big cities, manipulating them with scruples for drug money.   
Brendon had been well conditioned to ignore these parasites. Tribeca, draped in satin wealth, saw them occasionally but it was as though a force field drove them away. The homeless gravitated to the drug stores, fast food restaurants, and grocery stores, in places where often, their patrons weren’t doing much better. When he went into other parts of NYC, he was rarely bothered, unless the person became angry.   
However, Brendon today dropped a five in his lap. 

“Finally, holy shit! We’re going to miss the Overture for sure at this point!”  
“I’m sorry, there was traffic on Lincoln. Where’s David?” Kara almost spoke, but a diaper and a blue Cars shirt ran into the foyer, screeching excitedly.   
“Hey kid!” Brendon picked him up and swung him around, put him on his hip, showering kisses all over David’s face. “Long time, no see, little buddy!” Brendon turned to his frantic sister. “Are we all set?”  
Kara’s husband drifted through like a ghost from the hallway to the door, told her he’d bring the car around, and was gone. “Okay, there’s Chef Boyardee on the counter, no juice, or he’ll never fall asleep tonight, he already had ice cream today, NO Fast and the Furious, James Bond, nothing, do you hear me Brendon?”  
“Yes, of course. None of those movies, I promise.”  
“Nothing of the kind! And don’t play loud music, the neighbors have immaculate hearing. And he has to be in bed by 9 or it will be months till he’s sleeping regularly again. And-“  
“You’re late and I know the rules! Just go.”   
She kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll talk about USC when I get home. Bye, my baby boy!” She kissed David, and left. Brendon turned around and looked into the huge, empty house.   
“Let’s go raid mommy and daddy’s liquor cabinet, my little buddy.” David looked at him with big eyes. “We’ll get you some ice cream while we’re at it.” David giggled and sucked his knuckle. 

Around 10:30, Kara’s voice boomed down the last steps of the echoing basement stairwell. “How did it go?” Brendon quickly sucked in a line of drool as he started and looked up at her walking toward him with dizzy eyes. “Are- are you drunk? Brendon…”  
“Hey, I didn’t get drunk until after he was asleep. Cut me some slack.” Brendon yawned with a large dramatic flair as he looked over at the silent baby monitor. “It went great. We chilled and watched some SpongeBob, it was good.”  
“Why is Logan’s Run case sitting on the top of console?”  
Brendon stopped mid-stretch. “Oh shit.” Kara sighed. She plopped down on the leather couch next to him and picked up one of the beers he hadn’t finished off.  
“At least it’s not violent, I guess. It’s not like David’s never seen boobs before. Did you two have an elaborate break-down of the cinematography or something?”  
“Actually, while Logan’s Run has impressive shots, the running, hedonistic and extravagant tone is really what captures the essence of the film,” Brendon hiccupped. Kara, after years of this sort of exposition, was beyond eye-rolling and poking fun. She folded her arms and looked around the room pseudo-casually. “We did watch a little Spongebob, too.”  
“Oh, good. Educational and morally uplifting.”  
“How was the opera?” Brendon said in his best snooty British accent.  
“It was fine. Not enough booze to make it interesting, though. He fell asleep halfway through, but luckily none of the investors saw. Or, at least I don’t think so. None of them spoke a word of English- chattered away in Japanese all night. You should have seen Bryan, he kept practicing Japanese under his breath! He’s been trying to learn, like, five phrases for the past two months. Oh, and we ate at that new place on Santa Monica Boulevard- it was amazing- good American cuisine, (they wanted something American), but still very exclusive. They had these great things- like it a little strip of bell pepper wrapped around cream cheese and bacon wrapped around that. Not that you’d care, you little vegaNazi. Hey, come up stairs and help me do some laundry.”  
“What happened to Marta?”  
“She has Fridays off.” She slapped his knee as she got up. “Come on, let’s get up, let’s go. We’ll have wine coolers and curl each other’s hair when we’re done.”

“So that’s it? You can’t reapply in a year or anything?”  
“It looks like it. I thought about maybe having Dad call, or Mr. Terarsi, but I don’t want to be that guy. Plus, maybe it’s a sign.” White hanger in hand, Brendon picked up and immediately flung away what he thought was a t-shirt, which was really a thong.  
“Bullshit. I might not know about the tone in Logan’s Run, but I know that you are one of the best filmmakers I’ve ever seen.”  
“While I appreciate the enthusiasm, I meant that maybe USC isn’t right for me. Maybe school isn’t right for me.”  
“Okay, you’re not That good.” Brendon pushed her playfully.  
“What do you think I should do?”  
“Grovel.”  
“Okay, except for that.”  
“I know mom would be totally cool with having a kid back in New York. They have tons of amazing schools out there. You could go to NYU, wouldn’t that be fun? NYU looks much more impressive than USC, anyway. Plus they probably have less of those Michael Bay wannabes and more of your average avant-garde, Kubric-loving, Bohemian film students.”   
“Do you think mom would pay for my plane ticket back?” Brendon asked, looking up from pulling a pair of pants through the hanger.   
“What happened to your scholarship?”  
“I still have it, but I really would like to use that for getting my life back together in New York.”  
“Ah. Just don’t tell her you have any money left, and I’m sure she’ll help out.”She hung up the last shirt, threw her hands up and shouted, “Wine cooler time!” Brendon shushed her, reminding her of the child sleeping the room over, and then she quietly repeated, arms still half up, “Wine cooler time!”


End file.
